


Uncaged

by bioticbootyshaker



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: First Time, M/M, virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet when Hawke was close to him, when Anders smelled the subtle aroma of his cologne and felt the slight brush of his fingertips against his knuckles when they accidentally – or not so accidentally, Anders had never been sure – touched, there was a sweet rush inside of him that he hadn’t felt in too many years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncaged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DirtyanonsofThedas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirtyanonsofThedas/gifts).



Anders hadn’t lied when he’d told Hawke that Karl had been the first. It hadn’t felt like a lie to him, at the very least; perhaps it had only been holding back. Karl had been the first person to put his hands on him, to kiss him, to place his body against skin that had for too long been absent warmth and tenderness. Karl had been the first one to take him to a height of pleasure that he had only before dreamed of. A height of pleasure that Anders’ own trembling, teenage hands had been unable to produce.

Not a lie, then, but protection. Because whether or not he and Karl had gone further than touches and kisses and skin bearing like hot silk against skin, he had been important to Anders. He had been a friend while trapped behind cold stone, he had been a confidant when the Wardens had proved too much of a sacrifice for him to make, and he had been a balm to Anders’ soul when the entire world seemed intent on seeing him wretched and broken. 

If he held back from Hawke, it hadn’t been without cause. He hadn’t known the man. He had known nothing of his intentions save for journeying into the Deep Roads, and even that had been enough to make him wary of him. So he had explained that Karl was the first and he had left it at that. He had noticed the way Hawke looked at him, the way his golden eyes seemed to burn like a wildfire when Anders stood too near him. And of course he hadn’t been ignorant of his advances and his pathetically endearing flirtations. Honestly, Anders had never seen a man who was so charming and handsome be quite so terrible at making his wants and desires clear.

So, for a while, there had been nothing for Anders to worry over. Hawke wanted him, in the way Anders had been wanted by many people over the course of his lifetime – a quick little fling with an apostate boy before they moved on to someone of more worth – but he didn’t need him, or love him, or desire him in a way beyond what was under his robes. 

Until he did. Until the fire in his eyes changed. It mellowed some, but not in a way that made Anders think the passion Hawke felt for him had dimmed – no, it seemed to him that it had deepened. No longer burning hot, but burning slow, and low, and constant.

Hawke was a passionate man in all that he did. So often he spoke to others sharply, perhaps sharper than he intended, but when he spoke with Anders his voice was soft, tender, and ineffably patient. It came as no surprise to Anders, despite Hawke’s quick temper, he wore his heart on his sleeve, and he was always earnest, and open, and terribly vulnerable. Anders often thought of him as a raw nerve, painful to the touch, stinging like a blighted Mabari bite. But for every visceral part of him, there was a part that seemed made of softer things. Gentler things. 

Everything went haywire the moment Anders realized he wanted Hawke as badly as Hawke wanted him. After that, there seemed to be nothing he could do to keep himself from the man. Despite Justice’s insistence that he remain focused on the cause and chained to the ideals that had led him down the bloody path he now walked, Anders was drawn to Hawke like a moth to a flame. He would watch him, when he was sure Hawke wouldn’t notice him, and what he saw was a man of strong morals and convictions, a man of fervent faith that could never be shaken. Not the faith of Chantry, with its sweet Chant and its poisonous lies, but faith in himself, in his friends and family, and in the work he did.

It was so terribly easy to love a man who carried himself with so much strength and passion and dignity. So terribly easy for Anders to set aside the vellum and ink that gnarled his hand and stained his fingertips and simply watch him – so terribly easy for Anders to push aside everything that had been his reason for being before Hawke had entered his life and mucked everything up.

He had found his way into Anders’ heart, despite his strongest defenses, and he had tracked boot prints everywhere. Anders doubted he would ever be free of the man, that he would ever see a morning where his first thought wasn’t of Hawke; in a way it was comforting, but it was also damned inconvenient and even dangerous.

His goal was not to take a lover. It had never been his ambition to find himself between Hawke’s silken sheets and spend his days making a makeshift home on his wide chest. It was his ambition to see his people freed, to ensure that no other mageling would suffer the fate he had; to topple the Circles to the ground and reduce the Templar Order to rubble.

Yet when Hawke was close to him, when Anders smelled the subtle aroma of his cologne and felt the slight brush of his fingertips against his knuckles when they accidentally – or not so accidentally, Anders had never been sure – touched, there was a sweet rush inside of him that he hadn’t felt in too many years. Since Karl had died he had kept himself fixated on his struggle for mage freedom, closing up his heart and keeping himself as far removed from the prospect of romance as he possibly could. It had more to do than being focused and single-minded; he was still struggling to accept that Karl had died at his hand. Yes, he had been made Tranquil, which to most mages was a fate far worse than death; but his heart carried the brunt of what he’d done, and it knew no logic. 

Still, keeping himself from Hawke was beginning to grow nearly impossible. For one, he had pledged his loyalty to the man, and as such, he felt obligated to keep his word and chase Hawke around wherever his whims carried him. And, besides that, he merely enjoyed being with the man. He enjoyed hearing about his time in Lothering, his time serving under King Cailan. One night, over drinks, Hawke had told him about Ostagar. He had spoken bluntly, albeit slurred from too much ale, and he had spoken plainly. Once or twice he had been forced to stop, to sit quietly and reflect on the horrors he had seen, the King he had watched fall. It was a terrible burden to carry; Anders had experience with terrible burdens. 

“I’ve lived a good enough life,” Hawke had said, staring moodily into his tankard of ale. “Though I fear it’s been a bit… lacking in something.”

“Something?” Anders asked. His voice had trembled, only slightly. Hawke hadn’t noticed, and if he had, he had chosen not to mention it.

“Something,” Hawke said, nodding slightly. His eyes had turned up to Anders’ face, and for the first time Anders had seen just how lovely they were. They seemed to capture the candlelight, burning low and startlingly golden. Anders had swallowed, feeling far too warm beneath his robes, far too warm beneath his ribs. He’d wanted to say something, suave or charming, but all he’d managed was a small chuckle.

There was no chuckling when he entered Hawke’s manor a few weeks later. He stood in the doorway to Hawke’s bedroom as though he had every right to be there. Hawke said nothing, only stood from his drawing table and moved nearer to him. For three years Anders had been wanting him, fighting every urge to kiss his mouth raw and press him up against the nearest wall. Fighting every urge to move into his arms and fist his hands in fabric and run his nails over smooth leather and press his face against Hawke’s throat. Because at the end of the day what Anders needed wasn’t heat and passion and sweat clinging to his skin and a lover held between his thighs; what he needed was someone to put their arms around his waist and their lips against his ear and tell him things would be okay.

Hawke’s brutal nature may have been softened when Anders was near him, but that didn’t mean he wished to coddle him. He whispered no sweet things into Anders’ ear, he did not take him into his arms as though he was some fragile little thing that had washed up on the rocks. What Hawke did was stand close to him, rough hands on Anders’ hips, and look at him closely. He afforded Anders no luxury of looking elsewhere, and even if he had Anders doubted he could have pulled himself out of Hawke’s eyes. What he saw in those eyes made his heart beat faster, hard against his ribcage.  
There was no pity in Hawke’s stare, and no absolution. There was, in great abundance, acceptance and, perhaps more importantly, love for him. Hawke knew what he was, what he had done, how he lived and how he meant to die; and he loved him regardless. 

Years of exhaustion and fear and hopelessness collapsed over Anders in a single moment. He felt himself sagging against Hawke’s chest, eyes hot and wet, throat too tight with words that could never be made. Hawke held him, as gently as he could. He cradled Anders’ head against his chest, fingers slipping through the ribbon that kept his hair tied and letting it spill over his face. It offered Anders a meager hiding place, something to keep his tears private against Hawke’s armor.

“If you need something,” Hawke whispered, “Tell me.”

There were many things he needed, too many to be named. There were more things that he wanted. To be free, truly and completely. To unshoulder the burden he had placed on himself, to allow himself the chance to love and be loved, to wander the road with no worries of Templars or Wardens. To lie down at night with no thoughts of bloody battles and revolutions; to dream only of sweet things, to taste only sweet things, to feel only sweet things.

All that he could do was center those thoughts on the man in front of him, to take his hand to the edge of Hawke’s jaw and slip his thumb over his pulse. “You,” Anders said. His voice was far less tremulous than his body; strong and sure. He eased his lips over where his thumb stroked, and he felt Hawke start, surprised by the kiss, or perhaps surprised by the softness of Anders lips.

Hawke kissed between his eyes, where his brow furrowed and sank heavy lines. He inched lower, over eyelids and the bridge of his nose, against his cheek and jaw, down to his throat where his own pulse quickened. Anders said his name, too breathy and desperate for his own liking, but Maker be damned, it felt good. Better than anything had ever felt before. Where those lips touched him, Anders felt years of pain and anger and grief washing away. He knew it was temporary. He knew that when this was over, he would return to his Clinic with his quill and his vellum, he would return to the Undercity with its stink and its shadows, and he would dismantle what he could and free who he could. 

But in that moment, in that space of minutes, Anders was as free as he had ever been.

There was hesitance from Hawke when he started undressing Anders. He looked down into his eyes, questioningly. Anders nodded, slowly, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply as Hawke stripped him of pauldrons and cloth and leather. He knew that he was flushed, from the crown of his head to the center of his chest, and he laughed when Hawke laughed, and gasped when Hawke pressed his lips to the center of his chest and dragged his tongue over his nipple. 

He watched Hawke kiss and lick over his chest, smiling when he stopped to caress his fingertips over his spattering of freckles. He seemed charmed by them, smirking up at Anders before his kisses touched the clusters of freckles and edged lower. Anders held his breath, self-conscious of his body, painfully aware of it in a way he never had been aware. He could suddenly feel every scar, every callus, every imperfection and love-handle and chubby part that had once been lean and angular. If Hawke minded, he never said so, he only kissed each inch he found until he was on his knee and Anders’ cock was in his hand and mouth.

Anders’ knees trembled. He gripped Hawke’s hair, biting his bottom lip, dreadfully unsure of himself. He moved his hips, experimentally, gauging Hawke’s reaction as he pushed more of his cock over his tongue and against his throat. Aside from a slight gag, Hawke remained unfazed. He grabbed Anders’ hips and pulled him deeper, burying his nose in curly blonde hair. Anders moaned, and with the noise, he was suddenly and unequivocally uninhibited. He felt like an animal that had been loosed from its cage, not dangerous necessary, but incredibly hungry. 

He moved his hips with more freedom, clutching Hawke’s hair tightly and pulling him flush against his stomach and groin. Hawke made no noise, only breathed heavily through his nose until Anders released him and he pulled off of his cock and wiped his mouth. He didn’t mind the treatment judging by the smile at the corner of his mouth. Hawke lifted Anders’ leg over his shoulder, pausing to kiss and nibble at his inner thigh before swallowing his cock to the back of his throat again.

With only one leg to support him, Anders felt that it was inevitable he would fall. He could feel his knee quaking, his toes curling down against the floor seeking some kind of feeble balance. He was forced to lower his leg from Hawke’s shoulder. With some regret, he got Hawke to his feet and backed him towards the bed, chuckling when Hawke fell across the bed and made a comical noise of surprise. 

Anders crawled on top of him, not sure of what he was doing or what he meant to do, only sure of what he wanted.

“Please just… go easy on me,” Anders whispered. “It’s my first time.”

The words were difficult to say. Not because he was ashamed of his virginity – he had never attached much meaning to such a thing, and less meaning to the loss of it – but because he was sure Hawke would wonder how that could be so when he had explained he and Karl’s relationship. He hated half-truths as badly as he did lies; he had certainly never meant to mislead Hawke.

Hawke nodded, curling his fingers against Anders’ ass and looking up at him with those pretty, terribly deep eyes of his. Again, there was no absolution to be found, but there was love, and understanding, and in the end, Anders needed to be loved more than he needed to be coddled.

“Easy,” Hawke whispered, as Anders settled on his hips and lowered himself onto his cock. It hurt, but not as badly as he’d been expecting. It was almost pleasant, how full he felt. There was no mistaking that Hawke was inside of his body, as one with him as another person could possibly be; and despite the pain, it was the greatest thing he had ever felt. “There,” Hawke continued, voice soft – snagged by gasps and lusty breathing, but otherwise encouraging. “Good boy,” Hawke sighed, when Anders was seated on him fully, hands braced on Hawke’s chest. “Good boy. Slow, now. Easy.”

Anders trembled from the words. They settled over him warm and sweet. He closed his eyes and let his body take over. His mind was blissfully silent; no spirit of Justice to darken his pleasure and joy, no haunting memories to stab at him brutally, no quest for freedom to get in the way of skin and tongue and want.

He hadn’t expected Hawke to move so quickly, given his size. Even the fact that he had seen the man in battle many times hadn’t prepared him. He was on his hands and knees suddenly, Hawke on his back, hand groping between his thighs. Anders cried out and Hawke bit his shoulder, raising a bruise over freckles and scars. He held him as he fucked him; slow, yes, but not quite easy. Not quite as easy as Anders had wanted, but he realized it didn’t matter. He hadn’t known what he wanted until Hawke was inside of him, and he found the rough thrust of his hips to his liking.

There was too much heat in his belly, too much of it bleeding into his bones. Anders cried out Hawke’s name as he was held and fucked and bitten and licked. He imagined it was how an animal would fuck, with abandon and primal hunger – but there was enough tenderness to remind him it was no animal inside of him, but a man who loved him. A man who had hungered for him for far too long, and who had also been loosed from his cage.

The way Hawke held him was too intimate, too much for Anders to stand. He came suddenly and powerfully with Hawke’s hand around his cock, stroking him quickly and sloppily, milking Anders over his sheets. Anders swore, whimpering, sucked in air through his teeth as Hawke continued to slam into him. But then it was over, completely, as Hawke bucked a few times, slipped out of him, and Anders felt heat and wetness against his ass and the small of his back. 

Hawke brushed his thumbs over Anders’ hips and moved to lie beside him. 

“I should go,” Anders whispered. 

“You shouldn’t,” Hawke said. “But you can if you like.”

Anders smiled, scratching his nails over Hawke’s chest slowly and absently. “Do you want me to stay?” Anders asked.

“Yes,” Hawke said. So blunt, so earnest, so terribly honest. 

“And how long should I stay?” Anders asked. He felt playful, happy, untouched by outside forces and outside worries. The world might as well have been Hawke’s bedroom and Hawke’s eyes. 

“I’d start with forever,” Hawke said, “And we can see how that works out before we make any long term plans.”

Anders laughed. It felt good, tasted good. Hawke kissed him and stole his breath and laughter, and Anders held onto him tightly. He was no fragile thing beaten against the rocks and washed up on the sand; but in Hawke’s arms, he was nevertheless saved.

**Author's Note:**

> commission for dirtyanonsofthedas!


End file.
